


An Agreement to Pick Locks

by BlackEyedGirl



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Handcuffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackEyedGirl/pseuds/BlackEyedGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants the test, but it is Joan who will judge his success. [Written for Porn Battle]</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Agreement to Pick Locks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XIV for prompts _fingers, stay, bound, handcuffs_

This was Sherlock’s idea, but Joan still sees the carpal bones move under his skin when she secures the handcuffs. She knows he’s been handcuffed before, not always self-inflicted, so it isn’t a lack of familiarity. It might just be reflex; he stills in the next moment. 

Joan pats him down, feeling him watch her. She confiscates the paperclip in his pocket, then feels gently inside his mouth, in case he has decided to make this more of a challenge for her. But there are no more improvised lock picks or other contraband, so she moves on.

The blindfold is next, the narrow woollen scarf she pulled off after she pushed him into the chair. She ties it around his eyes and this time he doesn’t move at all. He is in just his jeans and one of his faded t-shirts, no socks. Joan takes off her shirt, and drags the sleeve over his bare feet. Sherlock shivers. 

“The blindfold is unnecessary, you know,” he says. “If you wanted me to close my eyes I would...” He trails off briefly. “Would you rather I didn’t speak?”

She stands behind him, stepping out of her jeans. “You can speak if you think you should.” That’s something of a compromise between Joan, who Sherlock alleges wants to talk about everything; Sherlock, who wants to talk seriously about nothing but _will_ talk about anything; and what this is about, which requires fewer distractions. Sherlock could do this, probably, with the addition of more visual and auditory stimuli, but she would rather that he be focussed.

Joan leans in, so her hair falls over his shoulder. “Just concentrate.” She pushes her underwear down her legs until the silk falls to her feet. Stooping, she picks them up and presses them into his (possibly) unsuspecting hands. “Hold onto those for a moment.” Joan walks around him and sits on his lap, facing him, with her thighs bracketing his. “I should have thought this through. If I had worn a bra that opened at the front you could have tried for opening it with your teeth. It might have made a good round one.”

The expressions that flicker on his face are different when she can’t see his eyes. He says, “If you would like to turn around, I could certainly make a decent attempt.”

She has no doubt that he could do it, even blindfolded – that in itself is not an impossible feat. But she prefers this orientation in the chair. Joan leans forward again, not kissing him, simply pressing her skin to his, changing where they touch. It’s foreplay, or something like it. Joan stands up onto her toes and forward, her feet either side of the chair. Sherlock wrenches towards her, though his hands are cuffed around the seat back. He ducks his head, trying to get his mouth near her cunt. He says, “I can smell you,” the way he announces he has spotted something at a scene. As though it’s vitally important that she knows it too. Her legs shake.

“No,” Joan says firmly. “Not on the cards today. _Concentrate_.” She steps away from the chair, walking around it until she is standing behind him. The chair has a solid frame, no arms, but a sturdy back which she could lean against, were Sherlock’s cuffed arms not in the way. She admires the stretch of them, leanly muscled where they are held fixed.

His fingers twitch. “Now?” he asks.

“Yes.” His hands spread, questing, and this is not a test of reach so she takes another step closer, pressed against the open back of the seat, pressed against his fingers. He turns his wrists in the cuffs, testing the angles, and then his fingertips are at her entrance, smoothing their way in. She is already wet, has been since they both decided that today was a good day to try this, but she cannot prevent the ‘oh’ when his fingers find the spot he is searching for. Joan braces herself on the back of the chair and holds on. 

Sherlock moves his hands, bringing the cuffs against her bare leg. The metal is warm from his skin. She crosses one arm over his chest, so her breast brushes his cheek. “Added variable,” he mutters. “ _Cheating_ , Watson.”

“You’ll manage,” she answers, because he will, there is no clock but she knows he will be able to tell her the time, slower than handcuffs but faster than a safe, she is opening. 

The chair scuffs the floor as she jerks forward, his fingers deep inside her and twisting. He says, “Watson, Watson,” rising as she does. Joan does not hear tumblers falling into place; she will ask Sherlock later what the feeling translated as for him. She holds onto the chair and lets everything else drop.

Sherlock gives her a minute or two before he turns his head, still blindfolded, butting against her stomach. “Are you all right?”

“I’m- fine, I’m fine. You?”

“Excellent. I think my focus still has scope for improvement.”

“Okay. So do you want me to uncuff you or...?”

“If you can just give me the paperclip back, I’ll take care of it.”

Joan finds the paperclip in the pocket of her discarded jeans and presses it into the palm of his hand. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Watson.”

Joan looks down at the top of his head. She kisses him at his hairline, and then puts her shirt back on. She sits on the couch and watches him work on the lock.


End file.
